


No Running From Her

by fannishliss



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  the Doctor tries to repress his natural urges when it comes to Rose, but in the end, there’s no escaping her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Running From Her

**title: No Running From Her**  
author: [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[**fannishliss**](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/)   
pairing: Rose/Nine  
rating: adult (nc-17)  
warnings: angsty, explicit, alien sex  
spoilers: none  
length:  3412 words  
Author’s Note :   I hoped this would fill a prompt at the [](http://doctor-rose-fix.livejournal.com/profile)[**doctor_rose_fix**](http://doctor-rose-fix.livejournal.com/)   [Summer '11 Fixathon](http://doctor-rose-fix.livejournal.com/195335.html), so I went looking.  This popped at out me right away, so here it is, by way of epigraph.  [](http://sapphire-child.livejournal.com/profile)[**sapphire_child**](http://sapphire-child.livejournal.com/)  [prompted](http://doctor-rose-fix.livejournal.com/195335.html?view=4790023#t4790023):  
"The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. ... Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."  — Martin Luther King Jr.  
I love this prompt, and while my story is low on hate, it's high on darkness, and the darkness is definitely driven out by Love and Light.  :D

__**Summary:  the Doctor tries to repress his natural urges when it comes to Rose, but in the end, there’s no escaping her.**

~*?*~

Once more, they're running, bolting from hole to hole, an angry army behind them, but leaving enough justice in their wake to make it feel worth while.

He loves that feeling, loves the girl running with him.  Of course he does.  He's loved many a human, his companions, who have courageously dashed down corridors with him, across rocky landscapes, into the fray and out of it, braving Daleks, Cybermen, and even the Loch Ness Monster. Love is a noble emotion. 

But this brutal thing twisting inside him, awakening parts of him that have lain dormant in his species for a thousand thousand years, isn’t love.  It's ruder than love. He wants her.   This body is strong, and fierce, desperate and hungry.  He's ashamed of what he wants.   He dreads the moment when it gets out of his control.  He snarks at her with cutting remarks, not to hurt her, but to lash himself back within bounds.   The things he's done have compromised him. What’s integrity to a killer? What's courtesy, gentility, to the Destroyer of Worlds?  His discretion is a lie-- but it's a beautiful, cherished lie. When the truth will out, it won't be pretty.

It's not sudden. It's immediate, yes, but cumulative. In Gallifreyan, the way the Doctor falls in love with Rose Tyler is delineated by its own tense, signifying, that which will happen, is happening, and has always already begun. In English, the closest approximation is co-eternal, a word usually carrying religious overtones, which the Doctor feels is not so inappropriate as he might usually consider it. 

At their very first meeting, he was struck by her aura, something golden, vast and eternal trailing behind her like a vapor, so tenuous as to seem imaginary.  But it's always there, rubbing against one of the dozen enhanced senses in the base of his brain that his forebears thought were such a grand idea after they'd spent several lifetimes staring into the Great Schism. 

His other senses imprint on her too, regardless of what he might rationally prefer.   His nostrils fill with her excitement, fear, courage, and yes, there's human arousal mixed in.  Nothing he hasn't smelt on many a beautiful young companion before her, but it hits this body more intensely.  And he can’t just blame the body. It’s her, everything about her, that does this to him.  He longs to feel the burn of her pressed against him, and every danger they face together feeds that longing.  Her laughter has begun to sustain him, a precious, vital thing he  can’t bear to think about living without. 

When he slips his hand into hers, after so long alone, passing fleetingly in and out of the vortex, only the Tardis’s hum in his mind for company, the shock of contact is harsh, even though he's prepared.  Danger, saving the planet, sudden beautiful girl -- it's par for the course, he tells himself, nothing new -- but it's been a while.

He feels a quickening in his loins as her hand tightens around his; their eyes meet; she's watching him for cues; she's ready to run.

"Run!" he shouts, and they do.  It feels like lifetimes since he's run this way.

He took her to look down on her own world, burning, used up, its last remnants already catalogued and preserved.  How could he have taken her there?  But even as he stood aghast at his own insensitivity, he sees her begin to understand.  Her mind is so resilient, her curiosity so irrepressible.  His own planet ended in flames, long before its time, but her solemnity is a balm to his own wounded soul.

He's shocked by his own cruelty, his blunt and angry words.  He never used to be like this.  He never used to shout at his companions until they turned away in tears.  What kind of man has he become?

His breathing is harsh, his eyes burn.  He knows what he has become -- Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.

"Doctor?"  she will say. One word, so many overtones, so many resonances, a crux from which so many timestreams diverge.

Sometimes, he's too ashamed of his rampant reactions to meet her eyes, but her effect on him is additive, multiplicative, exponential.  It's not just a vision of her stamped indelibly into his brain.   Slowly, surely, her patterns are engraved into every last one of his senses.  He can't shut them off, and he can't, won’t, excise the responses she evokes in him.  It's scandalous.

He slips his hand into hers.  The contact is startling. It's been a while, maybe a day, or longer.

He feels that quickening in his loins as her hand tightens around his; she's watching him, ready...

“Run!” he shouts, and they do.

He's mesmerized by the life pulse in her hand as their feet pound down some alien alleyway.

The acrid sweat of her exertion, her mortality -- he can taste every component through the tips of his fingers -- he knows the instant her muscles begin to burn with anaerobic toxins, he can feel the endorphins flooding her system in response.

The strength and determination in her grip astonishes him as she runs full out, keeping pace, and he has a marathoner’s body with two hearts and a respiratory bypass.

Every time they run he's a little more enthralled. By now he could trail her across a city by scent alone. Then there are the unique ripples she leaves in the timestream. He can't fathom why, for a little ape, her potentialities are so potent. Her movements tickle deep in his brainstem like the purest euphoric hallucinogen. 

When they run, her randomness, her spurs of the moment, resonate with the paradoxical loop threading his own timestream and he knows, at last he’s met his match. Her instincts lead her as if the universe were laid out for her own private labyrinth, leaving the Doctor desperate for the clue. 

They pound back into the Tardis, pursuers evaded, the whine and lurch of dematerialization leaving them both breathless with triumph. 

Rose is the picture of exhilaration.  Her skin moist, cheeks flushed, eyes flashing, breasts heaving as she tries to catch her breath through exultant laughter.

He catches her up and swings her around.  Her laughter shines on him.  His darkness and fire recede, burned away by her brilliance.

Her scent swims around him, so un-Gallifreyan. He's well used to humans by now, their musky aliveness, so unlike the dusty honey odor of his own race.  Her pheromones, tattling her receptivity, desire, shouldn’t stir him. They shouldn’t be a match; he should be incompatible; he should be as he was made.  But he’d never been like the other Gallifreyans, cautious and dry, though he’d seemingly taken such pains to be loomed like them.  Unlike his navel (paradoxical mark of suspect origin) at least his genitalia have always remained properly tucked away.

At moments like this, though -- her shining brown eyes, the softness as she yields in arms, the scent of her desire flooding into his brain -- he feels the unfamiliar and unwelcome ache as he swells within his sheath, a more and more frequent problem around this golden girl with her wolfish grin.

As she smiles up at him, the ache intensifies, the organ within him hardening.  To his horror, his sheath begins to relax and open -- is it really about to breech?  Is today the day he truly disgraces himself, after everything?

“Rose,” he whispers, his throat too dry to speak.

“Doctor?” she frowns.  “You okay?” She can see on his face that something’s wrong. 

“Rose, run!” he shouts, and painfully, it breeches for the first time in memory. 

“What?  I don’t understand,” she stammers.  “What’s wrong?” 

“Run from me, you stupid girl!” he shouts, pouring all of his anguish into his voice, his fearsome frown.

Frightened, she finally turns and runs, the Tardis opening before her as she hurls herself out of the console room, into the corridor beyond.

But too late. Too late! His nostrils are full of her scent.  She can’t escape him now.  This is his ship, and on it he is a god, from whom no secrets are hid.  He can’t run to follow her, hampered by the tender, emergent flesh, but he doesn’t need to run. He doesn’t need the Tardis’s help to find her.  As the Tardis spins through the Vortex, outside time, the strange ripples Rose leaves in her wake are even more pronounced; he can almost see the wispy trails of golden light.  They lead to her room. Her door is locked, but the scent of her emanates powerfully from within.   She is afraid.

He stands outside her door, simply breathing. No, another lie -- he’s panting, his hearts are pumping, priming him to take her. No turning back. 

“Rose,”  he grates.

“What?” she answers.

By the vortex, she’s standing just on the other side of the door!

His fists are pounding before he realizes it, like the beast he’s become.  “Rose!” he howls.  He can hear her crying on the other side of the door.

“Doctor!  Doctor! What’s wrong?  What do I do?”

“Let me in, Rose!”  Let me in, all the way in, let me bury myself in you, again and again, his brain insists.

“You told me to run!”  she cries.

Why does she have to choose now to start listening?  “Rose!” he howls again, banging his fists against the door.

It opens.

For a moment, he’s baffled.  The barrier has fallen.  His hands hurt. Everything, everything hurts.  Only one thing is good, only one thing can soothe.  His Rose.

He staggers toward her, unthinking, hardly able to walk. 

“Doctor?” she asks.  “Please, tell me what’s wrong?”  She isn’t even armed.  Her hands are wide and empty, her beloved self open and defenseless before him. 

He reaches her, crushing her body to himself with arms like iron. 

“Ahh!”  she cries.  He’s hurt her.  She paws at his arms, trying to get free, hands scrabbling at the leather of his jacket. He relaxes his grip, just a fraction, surprised he’s regained that tiny bit of control.

“Doctor, please, tell me!” she cries, her face is stained with tears.  He catches one with his tongue, and her pain and fear explode in his brain, paralyzing him.  This is so, so wrong.  If only he could let her go.

“I ... I wouldn’t, Rose... I’ve never...”  He’s choking, his arms tightening around her again.

Her hands come up, touching his face. He hadn’t realized that like hers, it’s wet with tears.

“Never?”  Rose whispers, stilling in his arms, understanding dawning in her eyes.

“Wrong,”  he manages, and licks her face again, to remind himself of her terror. 

“Why is it wrong, Doctor?”  Rose asks.  Tears are still fallling, but she isn’t struggling. 

“Hurt you,”  he whispers. 

“No,” she whispers back.  “You won’t.  You won’t hurt me.” 

“I’m too strong, bad... I’ll ... break you,” he says, and he is, he’s crying now.

“I trust you, Doctor.  I’m not afraid,”  she says, and brings her mouth to his.

The universe stops its wild rush outward as the Doctor’s focus narrows on Rose Tyler’s mouth.  The taste of her, the texture, the fullness of her lips to bruise with his own, he wants to devour her.  She’s not afraid anymore. 

“Be afraid, Rose,”  the Doctor gasps.

“No,” Rose sighs, and goes even softer in his arms.

Her submission calms him; she’s not trying to get away. Telling her to run was a mistake -- it aroused his predatory instincts till he could hardly think, but he’s a little more in control now he has her in his grasp.   Her mouth is heaven, suckling at his so sweetly, her lips and tongue coaxing him.  He’s holding back with every fragment of resolve he has left. Even so, he’s ravishing her mouth, licking into her, holding her as tight against him as he can. Her arousal breaks over him like a wave, and he moans, pulling back.    

“Can’t stop,” he says.  He’s captivated now by the pulses of her neck, and there’s a spot behind her ear redolent with the purest scent of Rose -- already an addict, he whines in ecstasy as the fix slams through his brain.

“Not asking you to stop,” she whispers. Her hands are clutching at him. No reluctance or fear, none.  She arches her neck, offering him her throat.  He bites, testing the give of her flesh, and she shudders against him but doesn’t pull away.  His organ twitches again, raw against the confines of him jeans, and a terrible thought rears its head, one he’d hoped he’d never have to face.

“Rose, listen.  I might... I might breed you,”  he says, shamed so badly that he’s actually able to pull away from her a little.

“What?”  she murmurs.

He squints his eyes closed, can’t look at her.  He doesn’t have the faculties right now to explain the looms, but it’s too important.  He has to make her understand.  “Pregnancy... it’s possible,” he says.  “My people don’t... didn’t...”

“It’s okay,” Rose says.  “I’m on the pill.”  Contraception?

The Doctor concentrates, breathes in -- yes, there, he detects the progesterone. “I don’t know,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” Rose says, and he finally opens his eyes again. She’s staring into his eyes.  “I trust you, Doctor.”  She closes her eyes and leans into him again. 

He kisses her as gently as he can, nuzzles down to her shoulder.  She’s wearing too many clothes.  Her bed is right there. He turns her and lays her down.  “Don’t move,” he says harshly, and feels another wave of mortification wash through him at what he’s been reduced to -- all animal desires, brutal, barely able even to speak.

He sheds the jacket -- he’s been wearing it all this time -- and the jumper, and he opens the pants.  He hisses as he pushes them down, and his virgin flesh is exposed to the air for the first time. Thick and angry, it’s all the way out of its sheath, curling up against his lower abdomen, eager to be inside her. 

He hears her intake of breath, sees the shock in her eyes.  He’s a mess, brutal hunger raging under a veneer of restraint, and her shock angers him. But still, she hasn’t moved from where he put her, and that helps.

“I can’t stop, Rose.  It’s past that now,”  he growls.  He attacks her trainers, flinging them across the room. She’s wearing those soft exercise pants, they come off easily. She raises her hips to help, and he moans as the undulation clouds his mind with her most intimate scent.

He’s on her before he realizes it.  He can’t bear the thought of what he must look like, feral and tear-stained.

“Rose, Rose,” he pleads. He’s stretched out between her bare legs, pinning her to the bed. 

She looks up at him, brown eyes full of concern, lips swollen from his desperate kisses. She’s flushed, so very beautiful.  “Can I touch you?” she asks, astonishing him.

“Yes,” he says fervently. Her hands glide along the muscles of his back and ribs, tender and loving.  If only he could be like that for her. He slips his hand between her legs, testing, and when he feels the slickness there his eyes roll back. 

“Now, Rose,” he begs. He’s poised at her entrance, ready.  He never wanted it to come to this, what he’s about to do, but at the same time, he’s never wanted anything so badly. 

“Yes!” she says.  Her hands on his back are warm, encouraging.

He can’t hold back any longer. So easily, he slips inside her. She’s hot, smooth, ready for him -- the pain of his naked member is soothed in a heartbeat.   Mind reeling, he seats himself deeply with quick thrusts of his hips, her gasps music to his ears, her hands gripping at his back, pulling him closer. 

“Okay?” he asks, holding himself still as her body adjusts to his thickness. Her neck is right there and he kisses it, unable to stop tasting her.  

She rocks her hips a little, taking him in.  “Yes, yes,” she says, and a tide of arousal and love washes through him, into him.  He pushes himself up, startled. 

“I’m touching your mind, Rose -- is that okay?”  Amazingly, he doesn’t feel anything from her but happiness and wonder.

“It’s beautiful!” she says. “Is it always like this?”  She wriggles a little beneath him, and in her mind, the most amazing ultraviolet glow tinges everything, getting brighter by the second.

“I don’t know!”  He looks at his hands -- still pressed to the bed beside her shoulders. “I didn’t know it could be ... like this,” he whispers, hopeful.  He looks in her mind, and everything there is golden, bliss. 

“It’s so, so good!” Rose says, a wide smile beaming across her face, and basking in her approval, the Doctor begins, in earnest, to move, his sex making contact with her nervous system, connecting.  He’d never had an inkling.

“It’s perfect,”  he gasps. He loves this beautiful, kind-hearted woman, so much -- he could never hurt her.  He rocks into her, and all his senses turn to their appointed tasks.  He’s memorized her in so many different ways -- he’s ready now, to play upon her body and fill her mind with nothing but pleasure.  How could he ever have been afraid of this, with her?

He kisses her, licking into her mouth, and tastes the happiness he saw in her mind.   He strokes her skin, and her receptors light up with comfort and pleasure. He listens to her heartbeat, the flow of blood through her veins, he feels the heat where he’s pressed inside of her. His sex seeks out a cluster of nerves deep inside her, and begins to pulse against it.

“Oh! Oh, Doctor!  What?  Ah!” Her body stiffens beneath him, her hands tightening on his body.  He lets himself go, pounding into her.  All her nerves dance with fire and her mind glows white with pleasure. He takes her higher, her whole body seizing, exploding in a blaze of gold. The fire takes him too and he empties himself inside her.  He was made for this.  He never should have doubted.

“You, Doctor, are fantastic,” Rose exclaims breathlessly, after she’s come back to herself. She’s finally gotten her shirt and bra off, and he’s idly stroking her breasts, so very lovely.

“Not bad, for my first time?” he asks.  He’s seen her appreciation firsthand inside her head, but it’s nice to hear.

“Fantastic!” she repeats.  “I can’t believe it was your first time ever, and you what, a thousand years old?”

“Something like that,” he concedes.

“But why were you so afraid?  You really scared me at first,” Rose accuses him.

“My people didn’t have sex,” he explains.  “Horribly taboo.  Not done.  Nigh-immortal, you know.  Every house assigned a limited number of cousins, all woven on genetic looms.”

“Sounds horrid! No offense,” Rose exclaims, tracing a pattern through the hair of his chest.

“Horrid, yes.  I ran away, you know.  Family hated me; loathed school -- later on I was Lord President though.”

“Really?  Of all Gallifrey?”  Rose does the “impressed” thing with her voice.

“Yeah,”  he smiles. “Left it to my friend, Romana.  She did as well as could be expected.”

“Your friend?” Rose asked.  “You never had a wife?”

“Had a grand-daughter. She was like my own child to me.  Bit of a paradox really. But a wife, a lover? Not that I can remember,” he says quietly. 

“Would you like to?”  Rose says shyly, watching him with those eyes that see everything.

“Would I like to what?” The Doctor enjoys being obtuse when it makes other people squirm.

“Have a lover ... a wife?”  she grins.  She’s seen into his mind too, so she already knows. But it is nice to say it out loud.

“Rose Tyler -- yes!” he answers with a laugh, and they fall together again, and again, and Time is satisfied that at least for now, her children are happy. 

~*?*~

 

Even More Author’s Notes:

I wanted to explore the dark side a little in this fic, and it starts out in a very dark place, much like Nine himself, but then it goes through the transformation process of Rose’s love -- again, like Nine himself.  :)  I’ve read several interesting takes on the Doctor’s alien physiology and I wanted to contribute my own ideas.  I had this idea that Gallifreyan males would have internalized genitalia, so that’s what’s going on physically. Also, I read Lungbarrow with an eye for teh sex, and I was not disappointed!  In Chapter Fourteen (p 136 of my e-copy) Andred tells Leela “They never taught us this at the Academy. I'd like to see their faces. I don't think anyone's done this for... it must be thousands and thousands of years. All the others do is watch the aliens at it and précis their notes afterwards.”  So that’s what I went by.  I’d like to think that it went more easily between Andred and Leela because she took charge and didn’t let him freak out like the Doctor seems to.   The stuff about the Doctor not knowing how or why Susan is his grand-daughter, but it having something to do with his own origins before he was loomed, also comes from Lungbarrow, which I find to be a weird but fascinating book. Thanks very much, Marc Platt!


End file.
